<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Most Girls Should Write a Memoir by narcissablaxk</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008567">Most Girls Should Write a Memoir</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk'>narcissablaxk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gentleman Jack (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, F/F, First Kiss, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:13:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23008567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Anne Lister is a writing professor, back from sabbatical, coming home to the University of Yorkshire to teach classes on writing. Ann Walker works at Crow Nest Coffee Shop, and is finishing her last year as a writing student. </p><p>Every fandom needs a coffee shop AU, and I am here to provide.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854), Mariana Lawton/Anne Lister (1791-1840), Vere Hobart Cameron/Anne Lister (1791-1840)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>124</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Anne Lister stood outside Crow Nest, the coffeeshop she used to occupy when she was a student at Yorkshire University. It looked much the same; the brick outside was just as faded as she remembered, the deep red moving slowly and inexorably into brown and rust. The chairs outside had been updated into spindly iron things, barely holding themselves upright on the cobblestones beneath them. But the sign above was the same – Crow Nest, it read in delicate cursive. It looked more like a tea shop, but the coffee was exceptional, so Anne used to be a regular.</p><p>She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders even more than they already were. It would take some getting used to, being back here, she knew that. Her sister had told her exactly the same thing just that morning on the phone, when Anne had called to check on their aunt. </p><p>“She’s fine, she’s fine,” Marian had waved off her questions. “How are you? Getting ready for the first day of the semester?” </p><p>“Not much to get ready for,” Anne had replied stiffly. “I have all of my syllabi in files, waiting to be used.” </p><p>Marian had rolled her eyes good naturedly and laughed, Anne could hear it in her voice. “Yes, because you’re the pinnacle of organization. I was just asking if you were happy being back, after being away for so long.” </p><p>“You know me, Marian,” Anne had replied. “Being back here is always…”</p><p>“I know,” Marian had said. “It’ll take you a little while to get used to being back, but once you do, you’ll be fine.” </p><p>“I’m always fine,” Anne had said, and Marian, knowing that Anne often hung up before saying goodbye, had hung up on her first, tossing an almost cut off “love you” to her as she did. </p><p>Anne pushed the coffee shop door open, listening for the bell to tinkle, as it usually did. It was those familiar things that threw her; she was used to walking into a new café in Paris, not knowing what she’d fine inside, or walking into a restaurant in Moscow, wondering playfully if her Russian would be good enough to translate through dinner. But here, everything was the same, and the same bogged her down, made her feel like she had weights strapped to her feet. </p><p>“Welcome to Crow Nest, what can I get ya?” A young blonde woman, one that hadn’t been working here before, was standing at the counter, a blue apron tied around her waist. She was beaming in her direction, smile bright. She was wearing a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a yellow polo shirt, all pastels and sunshine.</p><p>
  <em>Oh, hello. </em>
</p><p>“You’re new here,” Anne said. “I’d remember you.” </p><p>The last sentence came out flirtier than she intended, but there was no taking it back now. The woman behind the counter (her name tag said Ann) blinked in surprise and then smiled again, this time dropping her eyes to the counter like she was shy. Anne watched her do it, the smile coaxing out one of her own. </p><p>“This is my first semester here,” she said. “I transferred from Halifax U,” she glanced behind Anne, to check and see if there was a line growing behind her, and offered her hand. “Ann Walker.” </p><p>Anne took it, her handshake firm, and then loosened her grip, making sure to drag her fingers along Ann’s palm as she took her hand back. The deliberate movement was not lost on Ann, who watched it happen with a flush rising in her cheeks. She laughed nervously. </p><p>Anne tilted her head, ducking just a bit to catch Ann’s eyes and pull them back up. “I’m Dr. Anne Lister. I’m a professor here.” </p><p>“A professor?” Ann exclaimed, delight dancing over her features. “I wanted to be a professor once.” </p><p>“Did you?” Anne replied, leaning her hip on the counter, so she could keep an eye on the door and Ann at the same time. “And now?” </p><p>“Now?” Ann repeated, her eyes leaving Anne’s to linger somewhere else, searching for an answer. “Now, I don’t know.” </p><p>“Curious,” Anne said softly. “To not know.” </p><p>Ann brought her eyes back to her, carefully following Anne’s jaw line, to her lips, her cheekbones, and then back to her eyes. The scrutiny was unhidden, but Anne didn’t think Ann realized what she was doing. Still, she let her study her face hungrily, letting the moment pass by unhindered. </p><p>She opened her mouth to respond, to keep the conversation going, but the tell-tale tinkle of the bell behind her told her time was up. </p><p>Ann’s eyes left hers to find the person now behind Anne in line, and Anne gave her a smile, gentle and reassuring. “I’ll just take an Americano, if you don’t mind.” </p><p>“Of course,” Ann pulled a cup off the stack and scribbled her name on it. “I’ll bring it over to you,” she said. “Take a seat, relax.” </p><p>***</p><p>Ann Walker was good at her job, even if it was, as her grandmother said, “frivolous.” She was shy, but the limited interaction she had with customers at the coffee shop meant she got better at small talk without having the conversations last too long. It was an ideal arrangement, really, except for the occasional man who came in and tried to start a deep conversation while also ordering a small black coffee and pretending that order made them complicated.</p><p>And then, very rarely, there were the people she wanted to talk to. Like Dr. Anne Lister, sitting at a small table alone, a notebook open on her lap, pen tapping at the edge of her lips. She was curious – Ann was certain she’d seen her somewhere before, but if that was true, why didn’t she immediately recognize her when she came in? She certainly looked like a professor, with her smart, expertly tailored black suit, red pendant hanging over her buttoned shirt, hair pulled back in a low ponytail that hid exactly how long her hair really was. She was beautiful, in a terrifying sort of way, and then she’d smile, her eyes would soften, and she was an entirely different person.</p><p>As she watched, while the milk steamed, Anne’s lips, set in a firm line of concentration, turned up into a smirk, and before she could look away, Anne’s eyes were on her again, piercing and knowing, reading her thoughts. With a loud cough, Ann yanked the milk away from the steamer, narrowly avoiding burning herself. She hissed against the phantom pain, pressing the pad of her index finger into her mouth. </p><p>Unable to stop herself, she pulled her eyes up to Anne’s again, and she was still looking, unabashedly admiring her. Suddenly, the finger in her mouth felt suggestive, obscene, and Ann yanked her hand down to her sides, trying to appear nonchalant. </p><p>But Anne pursed her lips together, clearly trying to suppress a laugh, and let her tongue moisten her bottom lip, an unconscious habit that Ann was suddenly hyper-aware of. She watched it happen, across the room, in slow motion. When it was done, she looked down at the Americano she was making for Anne. Could she take the cup over to her? Or would she make a fool of herself and spill it, trip over a chair, spill it all over Anne’s perfect suit? </p><p>The bell at the counter dinged, shaking her out of her reverie, and yet another customer had her attention. </p><p>***</p><p>Anne pressed the nib of the pen into the paper, trying to scribble down her thoughts before she could get distracted by Ann Walker again. She was a picture, halo around her golden curls from the unflattering fluorescent lights above them, soft, confused smile playing around her lips when she made eye contact with her from across the room. </p><p>Anne knew what those looks meant – she had seen them enough times to know. The curious part was that she didn’t think Ann knew. </p><p>And then she looked up, searching out the girl again, just in time to see her burn her finger steaming milk. Ann hissed, adorable even in pain, and then pressed her finger into her mouth. Anne watched, breathless, as Ann looked up and met her eyes again. </p><p>Surely she felt it, what passed between them when their eyes met? </p><p>Ann yanked her finger out of her mouth, and Anne laughed to herself. She did feel it, she thought triumphantly. Even if she didn’t know what it was. </p><p>She returned to her diary, the pen demanding to be used, her brain insisting that she get out her thoughts to give herself some waking peace. </p><p><em>Being back from Hastings is both better and worse than I thought it would be,</em> she wrote, the pen barely rising from the paper between words. Vere has moved in with Donald, their wedding was being planned, and her affair with Anne was unceremoniously ended. <em>Being back home is dreadfully dull, but perhaps dull is what I need to force my spirit to rest. Adventuring has certainly not brought me any measure of happiness; only vocational success. It would be best to put my head down and get to work, forgo women until I can be certain the object of my affections is not fair-weathered. </em></p><p>Unbidden, she remembered coming back to the little flat she had in Hastings with Vere, hearing her voice through the kitchen door, laughing, flattering, in a way she just didn’t do with Anne anymore. She almost hadn’t pushed the door open; she thought about turning around and leaving, letting this indiscretion pass unremarked, but she could never stomach avoidance. So she pushed the door open, just hard enough that it slammed against the wall, and tried to put on a happy face. </p><p>After all, it wasn’t Donald’s fault, he had no idea what Vere was doing with Anne when he wasn’t around. </p><p>
  <em>I don’t want to remember these things anymore; I want to tear the pages out that have her name on them and burn them, but if I destroy them, might I make the same mistake again? </em>
</p><p>She dropped her head to her hand and massaged her forehead, as if ironing out the troubles that plagued her. </p><p>
  <em>I must decide not to make the same mistake again. </em>
</p><p>To drive home her point, she underlined it twice, the pen scratching deeply into the paper. </p><p>“Miss, uh – Dr. Lister,” Ann’s voice was soft, apologetic, desperate not to startle Anne out of her reverie. Still, she tensed, closing the journal sharply at her approach. “Your Americano,” Ann said, indicating the cup on the table. </p><p>“How’s your hand?” Anne asked, unable to help herself. Surely a little bit of light conversation with the girl would make her feel better, right? </p><p>Ann flushed, and she glanced down at her finger, not burned but still a little red. “I didn’t really burn it –”</p><p>“May I see it?” Anne asked, holding out her own hand. Ann glanced back at the counter, empty except for the other worker, wiping down the surfaces with a dingy rag. After a moment of hesitation, she gently placed her hand on top of Anne’s. </p><p>Anne turned Ann’s hand over in her own, pretending to inspect the offending index finger closely. “Hmm, yes,” she said, gently tracing her own finger over the wound. “Yes, you’re very lucky, I think you just barely saved this finger.” She ran her finger over Ann’s palm, to the tip of her finger, and released her, noting as she did that Ann didn’t move, her hand still outstretched for Anne to take. </p><p>Ann was watching her, her eyes guarded enough that Anne couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but upon seeing that Anne had noticed her scrutiny, she pulled her hand back, tucking it into the pocket of her apron, where Anne could see her flexing the fingers, stretching the material. She exhaled, the sound shaky enough it was almost a laugh, and as Anne looked up at her, and Ann realized she had been standing there for a long moment without saying anything, she flushed dark red all the way to her ears and darted away, shaking her head. </p><p>Anne watched her go, trying to keep the smile off her lips. Truly, coming across a girl so enthusiastic, so responsive to just a few moments of mild flirting, was a gift to her self-esteem, on a day when it was so low. </p><p>She flipped open her journal again, and her words stared back at her. </p><p>
  <em>I must decide not to make the same mistake again. </em>
</p><p>***</p><p>Ann was considering crawling underneath the counter until Dr. Lister left. What was wrong with her? First she’s making goo-goo eyes at her while steaming milk and now she’s just standing there, staring at her, like a crazy person? Dr. Lister probably thought Ann was a prime candidate for becoming a crazy stalker in under ten minutes. </p><p>She pushed her way to the counter, nudging her co-worker out of the way to talk to another customer, anything to keep her from looking over at the table where Dr. Lister was sitting. But the customer was simple, and before she knew it, Ann was standing in front of the silver machines again, her eyes already drifting to Dr. Lister, who was engrossed in her journal again, her hand moving swiftly over the paper. </p><p>Ann watched as her other hand smoothed the paper down, fingers outstretched, and she was reminded of those same fingers, gently touching the sore skin of her index finger, trailing over the tender skin of her palm, soft yet commanding. There was no question that Ann wouldn’t take her hand back until Dr. Lister allowed her to, though nothing had been said. </p><p>She wanted to rest her forehead on the machine so she couldn’t look up, to keep her focus, but then Dr. Lister was getting up, and she caught her eye again, Dr. Lister giving her an unreadable smile and a wink on her way out the door. </p><p>***</p><p>Anne’s office had been cleaned by a TA before she arrived, but even with that, she could still smell dust in the air, disturbed by the cleaning, and wished she could light a candle in the room. Instead, she pulled her desk chair out and sat, trying to become reacquainted with the space before she had to go teach. </p><p>Her first class of the day was a senior writing class – memoir writing. It was one of her favorites to teach, especially because she only got to teach it once a year. It didn’t often have enough students to make, as the minimum necessary was eight students, and most writing students wanted to take poetry, or novel writing. It was all about fiction in the writing department, and while Anne had published a considerable amount of fiction, her specialty was memoir writing. </p><p>There was something very powerful about holding onto your story and telling it on your own time, in your own way, and the medium had fascinated her from a young age, when her aunt had gifted her her first journal. </p><p>A knock at the edge of her door jolted her out of her own thoughts, and her TA was standing there, his tie looking just a smidge too tight, holding a stack of papers. </p><p>“Good afternoon, Dr. Lister,” he said, waiting until she gave him an approving nod to move into her office. “I have your syllabi printed for the first class day, and your updated roster.” He passed both items over to her, more sets of papers still in his arms. “These are for the other classes.” </p><p>“Put them on the desk over there,” Anne said dismissively, moving the roster out of the way to peruse her syllabus. She wanted to be fresh for class.</p><p>She had only made it to the second page before she realized that he was still there. “Is there something else I can do for you, Mr. Washington?” she asked. </p><p>“I just – I just wanted to say it’s nice to have you back, Dr. Lister,” Samuel said with a momentary warm smile. </p><p>“Thank you, Mr. Washington,” she replied. “I was glad to hear that you would be assigned to work under me again. We got on so well before.” </p><p>He grinned, clearly pleased with the praise, and then lifted his eyes to the clock. “Uh, Dr. Lister, your class starts in five minutes.” </p><p>“Not a problem,” Anne said, scooping up her syllabus and roster, tucking it underneath the stack of papers. “I can walk anywhere in five minutes.” </p><p>“But I can’t,” Samuel whined, trotting to catch up. </p><p>“They need me to start the class, Sam, they don’t need you,” Anne called back, increasing her pace. His laughter chased her down the hall and up the stairs.</p><p>***</p><p>“Ann,” her boss, Jeremiah Rawson, called from the back room. “Why are you still here? Your shift ended ten minutes ago.” </p><p>She glanced up at the clock, her eyes taking in the time while the cold feeling of dread filled her. “I have to go,” she said, yanking her apron off and tossing it on the counter. “My class starts right now.” </p><p>Carelessly, hurriedly, she jogged into the break room and pulled her bag out of her locker, retrieved her phone, and turned to run out the front door of Crow Nest, calculating in her head how long it would take to get to the writing building. </p><p>Another two minutes, at least. She groaned and jogged faster, her sneakers slapping against the pavement. Just her luck, late on the first day of class. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and glared up at the name plate of the building, trying to figure out if it was the right one. </p><p>She had gotten most of her classes done in Halifax; she loved the campus there – it was much smaller than this university, which meant she knew most of the people she needed to know, and after three years, the need for introductions dwindled to almost nothing. </p><p>And then her brother died, and her parents followed shortly after. Her grandmother insisted that Ann move closer to the rest of the family, and even though she didn’t care to be another cog in a huge family wheel, she obliged, knowing that she couldn’t say no forever, not with the constant phone calls and guilt trips. </p><p>So here she was, adrift in a new school, not knowing anyone who wasn’t her family, and too anxious to make new friends.</p><p>The building she was looking for rose up before her, and she breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the door open, trying to catch her breath. She glanced down at her watch. She was only a few minutes late.</p><p>Unbidden, Dr. Lister came to her mind again, and Ann slowed to a walk. There was something alluring about her, about the way she spoke, the words she chose, the way she held herself. Perhaps it was the confidence – Ann never had much of that. But underneath the confidence was steel, and below that, something soft and sensual. Ann felt it when she touched her hand. </p><p>She felt it when she looked into her eyes, dark and probing and far too intelligent. </p><p>At the sight of the closed classroom door, Ann breathed a sigh of relief. She steeled herself, knowing she was walking into a class late, and people were bound to look at her, and then gently knocked on the door. </p><p>A man with strawberry blond hair opened the door, his tie high on his neck, and gave her a brief smile. “Welcome,” he said. “You’re here for the memoir lecture?” </p><p>“Yes,” Ann replied quietly, trying to see beyond him to the classroom, but most of the desks were empty; the students were all clustered around the front row, notebooks out on their desks. </p><p>“I’m Samuel Washington,” the man said, opening the door wide. “I’m Dr. Lister’s teaching assistant.” </p><p>“Doctor who?” Ann repeated dumbly, as her eyes took in Dr. Lister’s back, her long ponytail. She was sitting on the edge of a table, close to her cluster of students, and Ann could see from her gesticulations that she was enthusiastically telling them a story. </p><p>For a moment, she was worried she would faint. And then Dr. Lister turned to the door, a question in her eyes, and stopped, taking in Ann standing in the doorway, probably disheveled and rumpled from her jog over. </p><p>She grinned, her eyes alight and playful. “<em>Good Lord,</em>” she said breathlessly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ann attends her first memoir writing class, and sets a meeting with her new professor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s about autonomy,” Dr. Lister was saying, and Ann scrambled to write it down, her handwriting cramped and small. “Writing a memoir is about taking control of your story, and choosing when to tell it, how to tell it, and what to include. For women, especially, this is an important distinction. Not only do we have to deal with being continuously erased in history, we also have to endure that, when we are mentioned, we are accessories, sex objects, mothers, daughters. We are secondary to the men in the story. Writing a memoir means taking control back. Decide what you want to say, and say nothing more.” </p>
<p>Ann nodded to herself, scribbling bulleted notes. She had never thought about it like that, but the more Dr. Lister talked about it, the more she felt like memoir writing was connected to her gender, the more important it felt to write down her story. Even if her story was boring, or had nothing significant to it. </p>
<p>She paused, her pen hovering over the paper, and looked up. Dr. Lister was grinning, her eyes jumping from student to student. Her cheeks were flushed, her hands active and fidgeting. She looked utterly alive, in her element. Ann set her pen down, no longer interested in writing notes, and dropped her chin onto her hand to listen unencumbered. </p>
<p>“Throughout this semester, I want you to start keeping a journal. Write down what you do during the day-to-day. Nearer to the end of term, I’ll have you look back on that journal and decide what to write a memoir piece on. I don’t want you landing on an exaggerated story from your childhood. I want something raw,” her eyes caught Ann’s, and Ann smiled, invigorated, and Dr. Lister’s own grin widened. “I want something real. I want to know who you are.” </p>
<p>Ann reached for her pen again, this time to leave a note in her planner to buy a new notebook. As she wrote it, she wondered if Dr. Lister would be reading their journals. Would she scour the pages, read all of Ann’s thoughts, even the ones she didn’t want anyone else to read? Suddenly, the idea of a journal was terrifying, embarrassing, even mortifying. </p>
<p>“Some of you are looking concerned,” Dr. Lister’s firm voice pierced through Ann’s spiraling thoughts, and she glanced up to find Dr. Lister looking right at her, the set of her mouth gentle. After a moment, she fixed her gaze on someone else. “I will not be taking up your journal to read it in its entirety. I will not ask you to leave it with me to peruse. I have no intention of reading all of your private thoughts. You will be asked to provide me with the occasional excerpt, but what it includes will be up to your discretion. I will never read what you do not want read.” </p>
<p>Ann breathed a sigh of relief, loud enough that Dr. Lister’s lips quirked upward for a moment and her eyes slid over to her before catching another student’s. </p>
<p>“Some of you look very relieved,” she said softly, and the class tittered a quiet laugh. “It makes me wonder what you’re hiding.” </p>
<p>Ann flushed, feeling the redness slipping up her neck to her ears, and tried to resist the urge to cover them. But to cover them would be an acknowledgement of the blush, and, deeper than that, it would be an acknowledgement that she had something to hide, and she didn’t – did she? She scribbled aimlessly on the paper, as if checking to see if the pen still worked, to avoid looking up. When she did, Dr. Lister was writing on the blackboard at the front of the classroom, her long ponytail swinging with the movement of her arm. </p>
<p>“Each of you had to submit a writing piece to get into this class,” Dr. Lister said, dropping the yellow chalk onto the chalk rail, a list of days and times written behind her. “Over the break, I perused them all and would like to have an individual meeting with each of you to go over them with you. Before you leave today, write your name in an open date and time slot, and make sure to make time for the meeting. I expect to keep you about an hour, nothing more.” </p>
<p>Ann stared at the board, trying to think of her work schedule in relation to the available dates. She was still relatively new to Crow Nest, so Mr. Rawson liked to give her the time slots that no other barista wanted, and she was too polite to ask to change her hours. </p>
<p>“Take your time,” Dr. Lister said, her voice smoothly pulling Ann out of her reverie. “I will be in my office if you have any questions, and once your name is on the board, class is dismissed. I will see you at your meeting.” She gathered her briefcase, her long fingers wrapping around the handle deftly, and glanced back at Ann, who was watching her closely. </p>
<p>She gave Ann a smirk that Ann wished she could return and swept out of the room, as commanding as ever, and Ann was left staring at her phone and the board, trying to find an open slot. </p>
<p>The only one she could see was the first ever meeting, tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. She really didn’t want to take it – what if Dr. Lister thought she was over-eager, or desperate? No, it would be better to come in later, in a few days, where Dr. Lister could see that she was just another student, no one special. </p>
<p>Oh, but she wanted to be special. </p>
<p>Despite her compulsive need to appear nonchalant, she couldn’t deny that her work schedule could not accommodate any other possible meetings, so she was forced to shuffle to the front of the room and write her name, crooked, and poorly done, next to the first slot. </p>
<p>“Brave girl,” Mr. Washington said with a laugh. </p>
<p>“Am I?” Ann asked, suddenly terrified. </p>
<p>Mr. Washington seemed to read her immediately, and smiled reassuringly at her. “No, I – well, she’s not –” he paused. “She’s scary, is Dr. Lister, but in a good way.” </p>
<p>“She is, isn’t she?” Ann asked, sighing in relief that she clearly wasn’t the only one intimidated. </p>
<p>“But she really is a good teacher,” Mr. Washington said, writing Ann’s name down in a planner that must be Dr. Lister’s. “She’ll tear your work apart, but never maliciously. She’ll make you great, if you aren’t already, and you have to be to get into this class. She doesn’t just let anyone in.” </p>
<p>“Does she?” Ann asked as the other students clustered around the board. “I was the last one to be let in.” </p>
<p>Mr. Washington grinned. “Oh, you were the exception!” </p>
<p>“I was the what?” Ann asked, clutching her notebook tighter. </p>
<p>“Dr. Lister only takes five students in this class per semester,” Mr. Washington explained. “It’s a specific rule of hers. She takes a lot of time with each student, so a class of twenty would not get the amount of one-on-one attention she thinks each person needs. She had her five, and then she told the Dean she was going to admit one more.” He surveyed Ann closely. “You were the one more.” </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>At 6 the next morning, Anne’s alarm went off – loud, screechy, annoying, her hand cut it off almost instantly. She was almost always awake when the alarm went off, but it signified the beginning of her day. She put down her journal, still damp from the ink of her Montblanc pen, and slid out of bed. </p>
<p>Her morning routine was always the same. She would go for a jog around the neighborhood, careful to give the appropriate smiles and nods to the parents who were taking their kids to school, the housekeepers who were coming out of their cars, bone-weary from the night before, and the children who were always fascinated with her for some reason. The husbands, in their pressed suits and holding their briefcases that Anne always suspected to be empty, were studiously ignored. </p>
<p>They were the only ones who would insist on making her stop to chat with them about something idle, and she couldn’t abide them eating into her valuable time. </p>
<p>After her jog, she would come home, shower, and make herself a cup of coffee. She never ate breakfast, but Marian had recently sent her a long article about how cutting out the first meal was detrimental to her long-term health, so now she obliged her by eating a piece of toast with jam every morning. </p>
<p>Then she would get dressed, look over her notes, write in her journal, and call her aunt. By that time, it was almost eight in the morning, and Aunt Anne was usually having a cup of tea at the table with Anne’s father. </p>
<p>She always picked up on the second ring. </p>
<p>“Anne,” Aunt Anne gushed. “I was hoping you’d call last night. How was your first day back?” </p>
<p>“Ah,” Anne said, thinking back. “It’s nice to be back in the classroom, and the students seem eager to learn. But it’s too early to tell, as yet. We will have to wait and see.” <br/>“And Mr. Washington is still there, I presume?” Aunt Anne asked. Washington was one of her aunt’s favorites, probably because he was, as she said, kind and genteel, and many of the other university professors were arrogant and condescending. </p>
<p>“He’s still here,” Anne relented, “and still my TA.” </p>
<p>“Good, good,” Aunt Anne replied. “And uh…how is Vere?” </p>
<p>“Fine,” Anne answered stiffly, the name sending tension through her shoulders. “She’s fine.” </p>
<p>Aunt Anne’s voice, on the other side, was cautious. “You never told me why you came back so suddenly.” </p>
<p>“There’s nothing to tell,” Anne said firmly. “Things change, I needed to come home to prepare for the semester. That’s it.” </p>
<p>“Okay,” Aunt Anne said dubiously. “You know you can talk to me about it.” </p>
<p>“I know,” Anne said, softer. “I should go. I have a meeting in an hour.” </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Ann stood in front of her mirror, her eyes watching the digital clock behind her creep over to announce that it was now 9 a.m. She had been up since 7, her nerves compounding the more she thought about this meeting with Dr. Lister, and at 7:30, she had given up sleep as a bad job. She had taken a shower, forcing herself to put a bit of makeup on her face, and had since been staring at herself in the mirror for the better part of twenty minutes. </p>
<p>What was appropriate to wear? Should she be dressed formally? Should she be dressed for work, especially knowing she had a shift after the meeting? Should she be wearing a dress, perhaps? </p>
<p>She groaned, unzipping the back of her pink dress, slipping out of it and kicking it to the pile of discarded other outfits, slowly rising by her closet door. </p>
<p>“Ann?” her roommate and cousin, Catherine Rawson, knocked lightly on the door. “Do you want breakfast?” </p>
<p>“No,” Ann called back. </p>
<p>Catherine leaned against the doorway, her arms crossed. “I thought you were trying to eat breakfast more often.” </p>
<p>“I have a meeting soon,” Ann complained. “And I still haven’t figured out what to wear. I don’t have time for breakfast!” </p>
<p>Catherine narrowed her brows. “Why are you so worried about dressing well for this meeting with your professor?” Immediately, her eyes widened. “Ooh, Ann, is he cute?” </p>
<p>Ann shrugged. But Catherine took that as an affirmative. “Ann, he’s your professor!” she said, pretending to be offended. Ann raised her eyebrows at her, and Catherine immediately relented. “I’m joking, you should try to get in there.” </p>
<p>“Get in there?” Ann repeated, the words slimy in her mouth. “I just don’t want to make a bad impression.” </p>
<p>“Right,” Catherine nodded, clearly not believing her. “Why don’t you wear that little baby blue dress you have? It’s a little low cut.” </p>
<p>“I’m not trying to wear something –”</p>
<p>“Okay, okay!” Catherine raised her hands in mock-surrender. “Wear what you want. I am going to meet Aunt Eliza. She wants me to take her to Zumba or something. I don’t know.” She stepped into the room and clasped Ann on the shoulder, surveying her in the mirror. “You’ll be fine, Annie,” she said softly. “Hot teacher or not.” </p>
<p>“Okay, leave!” Ann laughed, shoving her cousin away toward the door. Catherine gave her a wink before slipping out of sight. Ann listened to her slip her shoes on at the door and the sound of the door closing and locking behind her. </p>
<p>After a moment of consideration, she reached for the baby blue dress. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Ann caught Mr. Washington coming up the steps to the building just as she was, a coffee carton in one hand, his briefcase in the other. He caught her gaze and grinned, clearly seeing the nerves that deepened the lines in her face. She gave him a weak grimace in return, and offered to carry the coffee carton for him. </p>
<p>“Oh, I couldn’t,” he protested, but she had it out of his hands before he could finish. </p>
<p>“It would be a shame if Miss Lister’s Americano was spilled all over your shirt, wouldn’t it?” she rationalized, and he raised his eyebrows at her as he held open the door. “I work at Crow Nest,” she explained, hoping he didn’t think she was some sort of creepy stalker. “She came in yesterday.” </p>
<p>“Of course,” he said, like it made perfect sense, and he sounded sincere enough that Ann, for the first time, didn’t worry about what he really thought. Instead, he seemed perfectly content with her explanation, and their conversation lapsed into silence. She was then unoccupied by any distraction and her nerves surrounding her meeting with Dr. Lister took over her entire mind. </p>
<p>“You shouldn’t be nervous,” Washington said, as if her thoughts were projected onto the wall. “Dr. Lister is never purposefully cruel to her students. She’s a good teacher, and she’s honest, but she isn’t mean.” </p>
<p>Ann nodded, and Washington gave her a sympathetic smile. </p>
<p>“Doesn’t dispel the worry, though, does it?” he asked knowingly. </p>
<p>“No,” Ann replied, relieved that he understood. </p>
<p>Truthfully, this was the first time a professor had deemed her work worthy enough to warrant a one-on-one meeting; most of her undergraduate classes consisted of scribbled notes from a professor that were largely unreadable, a few taciturn emails, and the occasional public reading that Ann always blocked out after they happened because the pure mortification she felt was akin to the common nightmare of going to take a test and finding out you never got dressed. </p>
<p>They were now standing outside Dr. Lister’s office, and before she could even gather her courage, Washington was knocking on the door and sticking his head in. “Dr. Lister,” he said. “Your first student is here to see you.” </p>
<p>All too quickly, he was moving out of the way, and the office door was open, revealing Dr. Lister, who was sitting in front of what Ann realized quickly was her copy of her entrance piece, pen marks scribbled into every margin. She was in a black suit again, this time with a deep red tie, the knot intricate and tight, her hair done up in a sort of clip that left it falling down one shoulder. </p>
<p>Dr. Lister looked up, her gaze catching Ann’s instantly, and Ann watched her eyes travel down to her neckline, down to her bare legs, to her slightly heeled sandals and back up. Ann felt her ears grow hot, and when Dr. Lister’s eyes met hers again, the grin she received told Ann that Dr. Lister had noticed. </p>
<p>“Ah,” she said, standing. “Come in. I see Washington has put you to work carrying my coffee.” </p>
<p>“Oh, no, ma’am, I offered,” Ann said, desperate suddenly for Washington to stay out of trouble, though Dr. Lister had never given any indication that he would be. </p>
<p>She set the carton down on the table and took the seat across from Dr. Lister’s desk. She watched her professor pull the cup free from the carton and take a sip, not knowing where to continue. There were questions she wanted to ask, things she wanted to say to appear charming, funny, intelligent, but none of those comments were coming to mind while she watched Dr. Lister’s long fingers tap away at the edge of her desk like she was waiting for something. </p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Anne watched Ann fidget across the table. Strictly speaking, she had planned a relatively short meeting for all her students, long enough for a short conversation and a quick constructive talk about memoirs. But looking across the desk at Ann Walker, who had clearly taken more of an effort in her appearance today of all days, her blush just barely fading around her jawline, Anne felt like maybe…she could stand to learn a little bit more about her while she was here. </p>
<p>It would be the most productive way of doing it, she reasoned.</p>
<p>“So, Miss Walker,” she began, and Ann sat up straighter in her seat. “Tell me about yourself.” </p>
<p>Ann blanched, and looked down at her lap. “Um, about – about me?” </p>
<p>“Of course,” Anne said. “I want to know who you are.” </p>
<p>“Uh,” Ann shifted, fisting a piece of her pretty blue dress tight between her fingers. “Um, what would you like to know?”</p>
<p>“Anything,” Anne said. “What – what was your childhood like?” </p>
<p>“Um, well,” Ann stuttered again, and Anne had to resist the urge to reach across the table to steady her. “I have two sisters and a brother. When I was…twelve, my sister died. And then when I was nineteen, my father died, and my mother followed after him a few months later. And then my brother died about six months ago. So, I – I guess I’m an orphan. Well, my sister and I are orphans.” </p>
<p>Anne surveyed her, trying to choose her words as carefully as she could. She leaned forward, dropping her chin to her hand. “Miss Walker, I am so sorry that such tragedy has followed your life so early. That must have been very difficult for you.” She paused, searching Ann’s face carefully. “Is there is a reason why you chose to share that with me when I asked about your childhood?” </p>
<p>Ann blinked, and Anne thought she saw tears there, but as soon as she decided they were there, they were gone again. “I guess because I feel like it all sort of overshadowed my childhood, I suppose,” she said. “I don’t remember much of playing outside, or learning to ride a bike, or anything like that. It’s just all…funerals.” </p>
<p>Anne watched her push her hair behind her ears, her gaze dropping to the desk. It was incredible, what this girl had survived in her first thirty years, and that she was in graduate school, that she was here, offering the information up, was a testament to her strength, even if she didn’t look particularly strong as she told the story. It was intriguing, the contrasts in Ann Walker. It fascinated her. </p>
<p>“Miss Walker,” Anne said, rising from her desk and crossing to sit at the chair beside Ann. Ann glanced up at her, suddenly so close, and Anne caught her gaze and held it. “Can I tell you a story?” </p>
<p>Ann nodded silently, and Anne gave her a bracing smile. </p>
<p>“My mother was an alcoholic, my father a…well, he’s absent-minded. I am a bother to them both, and I always have been. When I was a teenager, my mother caught me standing on the roof of our family house, holding a sword I’d found in our basement, dressed in my old pirate’s costume from Halloween, pretending I was some sort of swashbuckling ancestor of ours, beyond my family and my own annoying tomboyish ways.” </p>
<p>Ann chuckled, the sound barely a breath, and Anne paused long enough to take it in before she continued. </p>
<p>“I remember it now as kind of quintessentially what my family always was: my mother upset and yelling at me, my father completely oblivious, my sister crying because I was surely embarrassing her. It hurt my feelings at the time, all of the bluster they made about me, but now it’s just kind of…a painting I can look back on with detachment.” </p>
<p>“You think I’ll be able to do that some day?” Ann asked, her eyes so big and soulful that Anne found herself falling into them. </p>
<p>“I hope so,” Anne said quietly. “I don’t pretend to know. But I figured I should distract you instead of segueing immediately into your entrance piece. That felt a little crass.” </p>
<p>“Oh, no,” Ann said, but Anne could see the gratitude shining out of her gaze. </p>
<p>“Shall we discuss your piece then?” </p>
<p>Ann nodded, her anxiety betrayed by her bouncing leg. Anne resisted the urge to drop her hand on it to still it. Instead, she rose from her seat and took her original spot across the desk. She glanced down at the piece, full of her notes, and debated on where to begin. </p>
<p>“Your grammar and mechanics are impeccable, no problems or issues there. I found all of two typos in the entire piece, which is on the low end. Content-wise, what you were telling me followed, the pacing was fine. My concern is this,” she leaned forward onto her forearms, relishing momentarily in the way Ann looked up at her, as if silently asking for divine advice. “My concern is that you seem, based on this piece, kind of repressed.” </p>
<p>“Repressed?” Ann repeated. </p>
<p>“It feels like you’re holding something fundamental back from this,” Anne tapped her finger on the piece. “Like you’re trying to work through something without actually saying what it is. Take it from me, whatever it is you’re trying to process will be easier to digest if you write about it. You never have to show it to me, necessarily, but I think once you open up about the big stuff, even the smaller stuff will have a new emotional depth that you haven’t tapped into yet.” </p>
<p>“So,” Ann started, and hesitated. Anne watched her struggle with a small smile. </p>
<p>“Go ahead,” she coaxed. </p>
<p>“So, you think my writing is good?” she asked. “Like, the piece I wrote, it’s okay?” </p>
<p>“Okay?” Anne repeated. She held up the pages toward Ann. “All of those notes, those are positive notes, Miss Walker! I do not let students into my class lightly. You were good before you got her, and you will be even better when you leave. I promise.” </p>
<p>Ann flushed, looking down at her lap. “But –”</p>
<p>“No buts, Miss Walker,” Anne said sternly. “My advice for you is not about how to write, it’s about what to write. Don’t be afraid to be seen. When you are seen, even if it’s just by yourself, the world will be so much brighter.” </p>
<p>Ann grinned at her, like they were sharing a secret, and Anne felt like her world was getting a little bit brighter.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>